


Take My Medicine

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, M/M, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:54:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29043435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: Spencer really doesn't like talking about his feelings! I'm sure this is shocking news to anyone who has ever watched the show.Set in the wake of Nelson's Sparrow.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Reader
Kudos: 30





	Take My Medicine

By the time you walked out of the break room, mugs in hand, the door was closing behind Rossi, and the rest of the team (aside from Spencer, of course) was long gone. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” you said dryly, and Spencer turned in his chair, startled. 

“Oh! Hey, sorry, didn’t realize you were still here.” 

“Another all-nighter?” 

He shifted guiltily. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Spencer.” You rolled your eyes so hard it was almost painful, and put both mugs of hot chocolate down on his desk. 

“Is one of those for me?” he asked hopefully. 

“Wait, it’s missing the secret ingredient,” you told him. You grabbed your bag from your desk, sitting down in your chair before rolling it over to Spencer’s desk. Then you took out your flask and poured a generous splash of peppermint schnapps into each mug. “Secret remedy for the blues.” 

“I don’t think you’re allowed to—”

“How about you don’t narc on me for drinking in the office, and I won’t tell Hotch you’ve been _staying_ in the office.” You gave him a cheeky smile and got a sheepish grimace in return. “Drink. Doctor’s orders.” 

“Why are _you_ still here?” he asked, taking a tentative sip. His eyebrows shot up and his mouth twitched, the way it did when he was too depressed to actually smile but his facial muscles were sort of attempting it anyway. 

You shrugged. “To keep you company, obviously.” 

“What? I don’t — you don’t need to do that,” he protested, and you could see the wave of his anxiety as a physical thing: fluttering hands, ducked head, creased brow, bitten lip. “I don’t need you to babysit me.” 

“I’m not babysitting you, Spencer.” 

“Thank you for the hot chocolate, but I _really_ don’t need you worrying about me,” he said firmly, turning back to his chess board. 

“I’m not worrying, either.” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. His voice had gone all strained and petulant. “Everybody keeps asking me how I am when all I want is to sit here by myself and finish my chess game. I’m dealing with it in my own way, okay?” 

“I didn’t say you weren’t,” you said calmly. “And I didn’t ask. Don’t get pissy with me.” 

He looked up sharply at that, and seemed to replay the conversation in his mind for a second. “Then… why are you here?” 

“Like I said. To keep you company. I’m gonna sit here and read, and you’re gonna sit here and play chess, and you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to… but I’m here.” You shrugged. “I’m not leaving.” 

Spencer looked on bemusedly as you pulled out your book and curled up in your chair, getting comfortable. You made a point of ignoring him. 

It was quiet for a while. Every so often, he moved a chess piece, and you turned a page, and you both sipped your hot chocolate. You were down to the lukewarm dregs of it by the time he finally cleared his throat. 

“When I was a kid, I couldn’t talk about anything that was upsetting me,” he said quietly. You kept looking at your book so Spencer didn’t have to deal with eye contact. “Because a lot of it… I was afraid they’d call CPS.” 

“S’okay. I get it.” 

He cleared his throat again, running one finger along the edge of his chessboard. “Aside from my mom having one of her episodes, my clearest memory of any sort of strong emotional outburst in my house was the day my dad left. So… it’s hard, sometimes.”

“It’s okay. Really.” Part of you wanted to cry at the tremor in his voice. You drained the last sip of hot chocolate. “Refill?” 

He gave you a jerky little nod. When you reached for his mug, he curled his fingers around your wrist and gave it a quick squeeze. Then he snatched his hand back like he’d been burned. 

“Thanks,” he muttered, tucking his hair behind his ears anxiously. “Just… thanks.” 

“I told you, Spence. I’m not leaving.” 

He actually smiled, at that. It was the first real smile you’d seen all week, and it made you feel drunk in a way your “secret remedy” never could. 

“Good.” 


End file.
